


you and I and us

by everydaybicon



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Feelings, Pining, Unrequited Love, but a lot of inner monologuing, not really sure what this is, they’re just so soft for each other, we all know it’s really requited love because c’mon, wholesome ending i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26474821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everydaybicon/pseuds/everydaybicon
Summary: Loving Judy didn't feel much like a confession.
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 55
Kudos: 146





	1. Need

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure what this is, but I hope you enjoy my ramblings.

If she’d had a moment she could pinpoint, an instance she could hold on to, to point to with certainty and say _‘this is when I knew’_ , maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe it would’ve been easier.

Instead it snuck up on her, a nagging inevitability, something she’d known before she could really understand it enough to give it a name.

And it sat in the back of her head, settled itself into the pit of her stomach, knowledge that made every little brush of her hand akin to ghosting her fingertips over a flame.

It was a fire that Jen was addicted to, a burning that she craved, and she hated herself for it, for every lingering, selfish touch. A hand on her back, a thigh pressed to thigh, grasped fingers and comforting lips pressed into foreheads that hinted at something Jen could only dare to hope for.

With Judy, Jen knew she was a taker, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to stop.

Sometimes, Jen just wanted to hear it back, and it was already an understanding, it wasn’t a revelation, and it was easy enough to say it without stakes or expectations, easy enough when she knew how much it made Judy smile. So, she’d say it.

_I love you._

_I love you too._

Loving Judy didn’t feel much like a confession.

.

Judy had nightmares sometimes. Fists raised and tears soaking her pillow, her body racked with sobs. She’d call out for Jen in the darkness, and Jen would take her in her arms, hold her to her and whisper in her ear.

_Judy wake up. Judy it’s okay. Jude, honey, I’m right here._

“You didn’t make it.”

_Jude, I’m okay._

And Jen would hold her until the shaking stopped, until Judy calmed enough to realize that it had been months since the accident, and that they were really, truly, finally okay. 

Jen couldn’t remember when or how sharing her bed had become habit, but she supposed this too was an inevitability, that the scent of her addiction—spruce and amber and something a little like rain—would come to linger on her sheets, that Judy would _always_ be within arm’s reach.

And so she’d stroke her hair, and rub her arm, and wait until Judy was all the way asleep before she’d let herself drift off again, and she’d dream of wide smiles and full-bellied laughter, dark eyes behind puffs of smoke, the feeling of bare feet in the sand, the warmth of a shared blanket, the scent-memory of a saltwater breeze.

.

And she wondered what it meant, that Judy needed her at night, that Judy would wake up devastated at the thought of being without her.

And in those moments she let herself wonder if maybe Judy might feel the same, let herself remember that it had been months since Michelle, and Judy didn’t seem keen on finding another. 

She seemed content with her life with Jen and the boys, content with her place in Jen’s bed.

But Jen would squash it quickly, not daring to linger on it long enough to taste it on her tongue lest the idea become words on her lips, words that she couldn’t take back, words that would change everything.

It wasn't worth losing her, nothing was. 

.

It was almost funny, that Judy needed Jen at night, because in the daytime things were so clearly skewed in the other direction.

_I made you breakfast. I dropped Henry off at school. Do you need help in the shower? Has your back been hurting today?_

And Judy would bake her pies and play Jen’s favourite songs on their drives, and always be ready with an arm around her back, letting Jen lean into her (surprisingly strong) tiny frame on the days when Jen needed the support, leading her through their house, arranging her pillows, bringing her drinks, showing her a kind of love she didn’t think was possible, that she didn’t think was reasonable, really. 

And she knew that Judy would do almost anything she asked of her, that Judy wanted to be needed almost as much as Jen wanted _more._

But it was selfish and stupid and would ruin everything they’d built together, everything they’d fought so hard to protect. 

How could she ask her to love her like that? How could she ask her for more?

_(Unless-)_

No. If Judy wanted more she’d have known.

.

But rationality didn’t quell cravings. 

It couldn’t keep Jen from reaching out for Judy like she was a magnet. Her hand would find Judy’s before she knew what she was doing, before she could reason with herself to stop.

Logic couldn't stop her from lazily lacing their fingers together as they walked the farmers’ market on Sunday mornings, encouraging Judy along when she’d spend too much time at her favourite berry vendor’s, when she’d get distracted by the bushels of multi-coloured tomatoes.

Reason couldn’t keep Jen from needing to be near Judy, from placing a hand on Judy’s thigh when they were hunched over Jen’s laptop together at the breakfast nook, browsing new patio furniture or window treatments or some other symbol of domestic nirvana, things that were somehow so much more interesting with Judy _oohing and ahhing_ beside her.

And even though she shouldn’t, Jen wanted Judy snuggled into her side on movie night, couldn’t help but watch out of the corner of her eye as the blue light of the TV danced across Judy’s beautiful face, lighting up the lines of her smile or the shine in her eyes, sneaking glances as Judy giggled or _aww’d_. And Jen’s hands seem to move of their own accord, sometimes settling on Judy’s thigh, sometimes finding Judy’s fingers under the blanket, absently playing with her rings, tracing slow patterns on the back of Judy’s hand, brushing lightly against her soft skin, warm and familiar under Jen’s wandering thumb.

And then she’d realize where her hands had ended up, realize that she’d been thumbing Judy’s red jasper ring for the better part of ten minutes, realize that Judy’d been _letting her_ and it would send her into the endless spiral of _why._

There were other kinds of spirals too, more often than Jen would care to admit, ones where she’d imagine Judy in all the ways she knew that she shouldn’t; the curves of her figure, the feel of her lips, the way she’d sound, the way she’d taste—

Guilt. Shame. Embarrassment. Remorse. 

Despite it all, she’d imagine it again and again and again and again—at night, at the grocery store, as she watched Judy make breakfast for her and her children. 

Lips, hips, fingers, thighs. Breaths, pants, keens, husk. Dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, matted bangs, a hand over her mouth. Sweat, tears, tongue, teeth, red marks that would last for days, weak knees, forehead kisses, sweet affirmations, Judy.

.

And she wondered what it all meant about her past, what it meant about her old boyfriends, what it meant about her marriage to Ted.

Jen didn't mind admitting it now, that it had never been like this before. There had never been such a _need_. 

And maybe it should have surprised Jen, realizing this _thing_ about her, but for some reason it didn’t shock her as much as it probably should have. 

It would’ve shocked her if she’d realized it before Judy, if it’d been anyone else that made her question everything she thought was a certainty, that made her understand what love felt like when you weren’t playing dress up in someone else’s life.

But Judy didn’t give her time to question or wonder, she didn’t give her reason to. Her place in Jen’s life made too much fucking sense that Jen was neck deep before she’d even realized she’d fallen in. 

She was her co-parent, her confidante, her co-conspirator, _her person._ She was beautiful and kind and patient and loving and thoughtful and creative and smart and funny and everything Jen had ever wanted and everything she had ever needed and she’d do anything to keep holding Judy close to her each night, to keep her safe and happy in her place in their life.

Love couldn’t be such a bad secret to keep.

Could it?


	2. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it taking? To want you like this? It wouldn’t be if you wanted me too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my love queenC_13 for the help and reassurances. 
> 
> Enjoy!

She’d known it since the very beginning.

She’d always fallen hard and quick but this time it was different. It hit her like a tidal wave and she was too far from the shore, swept up in this woman whose life she’d destroyed, and her head screamed _no_ and her heart struggled against the undercurrent, and maybe it would’ve been simple enough to find a way to repay Jen, easier to make her feel better if Judy hadn’t been swallowed by this wave of want from the jump—maybe she would’ve had more clarity.

She knew that she shouldn’t, knew that it was wrong to want something from the person she’d taken everything from, to want _this,_ and she tried to forget it, tried so hard to fight her way out of the wave, but Judy’d never been a very strong swimmer.

And then Jen let Judy into her life, and into her home, and made her a part of her family, and suddenly Judy had so much more to lose.

And then came the lies, the secrets, the malice, the skeletons, but after it all somehow Jen still wanted her there, and for Judy, that was enough, it was more than enough. She’d never felt wanted like this before.

So when Jen started reaching out for her again—intertwining their fingers, placing a hand on her thigh—Judy knew she’d do anything to keep it that way, to keep Jen wanting her close by.

Beside Jen was where Judy felt safest.

And she wanted it so badly, a life with Jen walking beside her—Jen always walked just a hair ahead, was always ready to shove Judy behind her and take the blows herself head on.

(Not that Judy would ever ask her to, not that Judy would ever want her to.)

But she wondered if Jen understood just how much it meant to her, to have her ready protection, and she wondered when and how Jen had become hell-bent on saving her because she’d been doing it ever since they’d met—saving Judy over and over and over again.

Her guardian angel, her lifeline.

Why did Jen find her so worthy of protection?

And when Jen called out casual ‘ _I love yous’_ in the car, or before bed, or when Judy handed her her morning coffee, a part of Judy hoped she’d found her answer.

So she’d say it back with earnest, hoping that maybe Jen would understand that she meant it with everything she had, that the words didn’t really mean _thank you,_ that they weren’t friendly lines to fill a void; they meant I’m _in_ love with you, and I’ve _been_ in love with you, and I’ll _always_ be in love with you, and you don’t have to love me like this but sometimes I think that you might, sometimes I notice you watching me and you don’t have to be scared because I’d give you every part of me if you asked me to. Ask me to. I’m in love with you.

“I love you Jude.”

_But do you mean it like I do?_

.

Jen needed help sometimes. On the days when getting out of bed proved an obstacle, on the days when she couldn’t lift her arm high enough or comfortably enough to brush the knots out of her hair, so Judy would help her, would gently take the brush from Jen’s hand and guide her into the chair at the vanity. And she’d stand behind her and make bad jokes as she sorted out the tangles from the night before, ensuring she was being gentle, but cautious not to let Jen see just how much care she took in the act, just how much she relished helping her like this, how much she adored Jen’s willingness to relent to her careful fingers.

And Jen would scowl and pout and mourn her newfound ineptitudes, but Judy had learned that if she just kept teasing and rambling she could make the scowl disappear pretty quickly, and soon enough Jen would be biting the inside of her cheek, keeping the evidence of Judy’s victory at bay, and it took everything Judy had not to ask Jen just to smile wide when she felt like it. It was such a beautiful smile.

And as Judy brushed, she’d be overcome by the smell of Jen’s shampoo, consumed by lavender and rosemary and the faintest hint of mint, by the overwhelming comfort of the scent that was so distinctly _Jen_ that Judy would falter a bit with the hairbrush.

And she’d be reminded of those early days, when they’d only just met and the scent of her was intoxicating but still unfamiliar. And she’d be thrust into memories of late nights and red wine, moonlight and blonde hair, proximity for warmth’s sake, ringing laughter in the dark—memories of before it had all become synonymous with home.

Judy had come to realize that now she herself smelled a little like lavender too.

.

Sometimes, as they’d sit together drinking wine after a long day at work, Judy would watch as Jen reached for the bottle and refilled Judy’s glass before refilling her own, before Judy’s had even reached the bottom, and she wondered if it meant something. 

She’d give herself three minutes of hope that maybe it did. 

And she’d time it against the pulsing in her ears, watching Jen’s bright eyes, her lips hovering over her glass, and she’d hold her breath and believe in her heart that they drank without pretenses, that she could look at Jen the way she really wanted to, that she could reach out and pull Jen’s face towards her and—

Then her time would be up, and she’d sit herself more firmly into their couch, willing the pulsing to quiet as she shook herself back down to Earth, remembering to smile appreciatively as Jen offered her more of the blanket.

.

If Jen wanted more she’d have told her by now.

_(Right?)_

Because Judy hadn’t exactly been subtle. 

_“Yours are better.”_

_“You’re heaven on a stick.”_

_“You’re beautiful. I wish you would love yourself more.”_

She’d said it in the mornings, whispered it after dark, uttered it in every tone and intonation just in case somehow, someway, it might actually, finally stick.

And Judy had always thought of Jen as being an intelligent woman, but she wasn’t exactly known for thinking things all the way through, and it made Judy wonder if Jen had ever thought about _them_ long and hard enough for it to be something she didn’t just laugh off automatically, for _them_ to be something that could actually make sense. 

_Had_ Jen thought about it?

Sometimes when Judy would catch Jen watching her, she’d find a glimmer of _something_ there, something like wistfulness, something a little like recognition.

Was she thinking about it?

It was a lot to learn, a lot to unlearn. Maybe Jen just needed more time. 

Judy would give her forever if she had to.

So she let Jen take the lead, let Jen be the one to reach out for her. 

Maybe it was all part of it, of the learning and the unlearning, and even if it wasn’t, even if Judy’d got it all so terribly wrong, if Jen was doing the touching that meant that she wanted it. Even if it meant nothing else, she wanted Judy’s hand in hers. 

How could Judy deny her such harmless simplicity?

Maybe she didn’t _need_ to feel guilty every time Jen willingly soothed her back to sleep.

.

In the light of morning, when Jen would take her seat at the breakfast bar and Judy would slide her a slice of her favourite frittata—spinach and mushroom and onion and feta (Jen would always take seconds when she made it like this)—she’d watch Jen eat, watch her casually cut herself a second piece, and Judy’d let the words play in her head. 

_I want you. I want you so fucking bad that every time you touch me it makes my head spin and my heart race and my skin crawls because I want to lean into it, I want to lean in to you but I can’t because I feel so guilty. I can’t just keep taking from you._

_Is it taking? To want you like this? It wouldn’t be if you wanted me too._

And then the boys would rush in and grab lunches and call out pickup times and the words would swirl around Judy’s head, and it felt safe enough to think them in the mad rush of weekday mornings with kids, with a family, when she couldn’t really focus on them among the last minute quips and shouts as they all rushed their way out the door. 

It was easy enough to let the thoughts be lost in the chaos, floating in the wonderful domestic symphony of mothers and sons and mundane determination.

But sometimes they’d float back to her. Little flashes in her day. When the world was too quiet for them to just float on back away.

_Jen, I want you._

_Do you think one day you could want me too?_

.

_I know you like your sandwiches cut on the diagonal. I know that your feet are cold in bed. I know that you think you look best in the colour red, but I think you look best in blue. Or green. Or white. Or maybe actually red. I love you in every colour. I love every colour on you._

_I know that you only wear your glasses around me and the boys because you think they make you look older but they don’t. They just make you look comfortable. They’re synonymous with home-Jen, like messy buns and sweatpants and half-drunk mugs of once-hot liquids. I find your half-empty mugs all over our house._

_I’ll bring them to our sink for you. I’ll wash them and dry them and put them away and I’ll shake my head at your bad habits because now Charlie’s always got half-drunk mugs in his room too, but I really don’t mind, I really don’t mind cleaning up after you._

_You’ve given me everything. A second chance. A new beginning. Hope and laughter and safety and care. And I don’t think I deserve it but for some reason it seems like sharing your life with me pleases you, and that’s all I ever want to do now; I just want to to please you, to make you happy._

_You’ve given me children to love and who love me and I know that they love me because they’ve told me. They’ve actually told me. I try my hardest not to cry every time. I end up crying about it each and every time._

_Because of you I know what coming home feels like. It feels like comfort, release, relief, contentment. A place where the menaces of the world can’t ever get to you, a place with walls you feel held by, with people who’d never let you go without trying to convince you not to._

_Thank you. I love you. I’m in love with you but I’m so grateful to you that it really doesn’t matter if you’re in love with me too because I’m just so fucking happy to be here with you._

_Sometimes I think loving you was what I was put on this Earth to do._

_You don’t have to say anything; you don’t have to want to._

_I’d love you quietly forever if I needed to._

_I’ll do anything if it means I still get to wake up next to you._

.

On good days, or the best ones—because maybe most of them were good days now—on the _best_ days, Judy would remember.

_“Will you be my person?”_

_“I love you more than wine.”_

And she probably shouldn’t, definitely shouldn’t let herself hope like this because in the past, hope had only been a precursor for inevitable disappointment. She’d learned the lesson young. It had weighed on her heart and made it weary.

But maybe with Jen it’d be different. Jen, she was different.

With Jen, Judy didn’t feel quite so tired all the time.

_“Thank you for loving me and our boys.”_

Judy holds on to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I adore hearing any and all of your thoughts.


	3. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day she’ll be brave enough to say it in the daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd initially (arbitrarily) decided on three chapters as a cap on this story, but sticking to that proved difficult, and then I remembered that it's my fic, so I get to make the rules. It's four chapters now!
> 
> The biggest thank you to my loves queenC_13 and bethchildz. Without you two this chapter would've been a complete mess, so thank you for helping me sort through the soup of my brain, and for the constant hype and encouragement.

“JEN!”

She wakes with a start.

It’s a strangled cry, a pleading one, and Jen’s heard it often enough, but every time she does it shakes its way into her core, creeps under her skin and breaks her from within. The fear in Judy’s voice breaks something in Jen every time she hears it. 

She’s shattered, and Judy’s scared, but somehow Jen knows that if she just holds Judy to her the pieces will start mending again.

So she scoops her into her arms and Judy’s frame is shaking, and Jen hates the fact that she still needs to grab her wrists, but she holds her steady as she brings her out of it, as she brings Judy back to the Earth. 

“Judy, wake up. It was just a dream. It’s okay Jude, it was only a dream.”

Judy keeps shaking, so Jen holds her tight and rubs her arm, whispering mantraic reassurances that, with Judy, have somehow always felt instinctual.

“Jude, it’s okay. Jude. Judy?”

“Jen,” Judy croaks, softer this time, and finally Jen knows that she’s through. She’s turning in Jen’s arms to face her, eyelids fluttering open as she meets her gaze in the dark. Her eyes are wide and wet and her brow is furrowed, her lips drawn into their perfect little pout, and Jen briefly wonders if tonight will be one of those nights when she needs to fight the urge to brush away tears. 

(She can never quite bring herself to. Somehow that feels like too much of an admission.) 

She’s relieved that tonight they don’t fall.

“You’re okay,” Jen whispers, and then, because she’s realized that this is what it always takes for Judy to finally breathe, “I’m okay.”

She offers her a small smile, and Judy returns it, taking a practiced deep breath. _In._ _And out._ She sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Jude, we’ve been over this. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I know but—“

“Jude. It’s okay.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Jen lies back and opens her arm again, and Judy settles herself into Jen’s shoulder, pulling the blankets up around them, nestling them both into their 300-thread count cocoon, and just like always, Jen’s hand finds its way to Judy’s hair, her fingers running softly through the waves as she feels Judy’s heart begin to calm.

“Was it the usual?” Jen asks. _Was it me? Did I die again?_

“Yeah,” Judy answers simply, and her voice sounds so small—it always does when she recounts the dreams to Jen, no matter how many times she’s done it before. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Jude.”

“Good.”

Judy snuggles in closer, her hair tickling Jen’s neck a little, and the way Judy’s pulled the blankets around them makes things far too warm for Jen’s liking, but it’s not like she’s going to move them, not when Judy’s put them there.

Being a little too warm is a small price to pay for the feeling of having Judy so close, for the fact that Judy feels safer because of it. 

And Jen tries not to dwell on the fact that _she’s_ the source of Judy’s turmoil, tries not to think too hard about the fact that the only thing that calms Judy down is knowing that Jen’s still okay, that she’s still going to be around for her. 

She thinks about it anyway, and holds Judy a little tighter. 

Jen could stay like this forever, in this strange sort of afterglow, where so few words need to be exchanged but it feels like they’ve come through something wholer than before—ripped apart and then bound back together. Together.

“Jen?” Judy asks into Jen’s shoulder, the heat of her breath warming Jen’s skin through the thin material of her t-shirt.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” and Jen offers another small smile even though Judy can’t see it from her place in her arm, and as Jen stares at the ceiling, breathing Judy in, she thinks about how Judy always says ‘thank you’ for this, like it’s some sort of burden, and Jen doesn’t know what to say to convince her that she’d do it every night for the rest of their lives without ever minding in the slightest.

How could she tell her without saying too much? How could she say it without telling her why?

She wants to say more than just ‘of course’. She wants to tell her that she loves being the one to keep her from falling apart, that Judy keeps _her_ from falling apart, that she could never tire of soothing her back to sleep because it's the only time she can hold her unabashedly, and a sick part of her relishes the fact that when Judy starts to falls apart like this she falls so very easily into Jen’s arms.

But no matter how much she wants to, Jen knows she’s not going to tell her tonight, not when Judy’s found herself so safely nestled into her side.

So she waits for Judy’s breathing to steady and even, until the gentle rise and fall of her chest means that she’s asleep again, and it's only then that she can risk saying more, when she knows for a fact that Judy can’t hear her.

And even though Jen’s certain that Judy’s long gone, she whispers it quietly—so quietly that it could be explained away as a particularly breathy exhale.

“I think I’m in love with you, Jude.”

Maybe one day she’ll be brave enough to say it in the daylight.

* * *

Judy’s so close to sleep when she hears it. For a moment she thinks it might’ve been part of a dream. But then she feels Jen’s fingers still tracing light patterns on her arm and she hears Jen’s quiet sigh, can feel the rise and fall of her chest as she does it and she knows for a fact that Jen’s still awake.

And the feeling of Jen’s cool breath tickling her forehead as she’d whispered the words felt far too real to not have been a memory.

_“I think I’m in love with you, Jude.”_

What?

It had been just a hope before, a tantalizing possibility, and sure she’d noticed some signs but she’d always taken them with a grain of salt, always careful to keep in mind that maybe she was just seeing things the way she wanted to see them.

But now, she knows. It hadn’t just been her imagination. 

The lingering looks, the prolonged touches, Jen’s willingness to open up herself, her life, her arms to Judy.

Jen felt it too. _Jen felt it too._

When she hears it, when she realizes the words are real, it’s like something bursts in Judy’s chest, as though there’d been vines wrapped tightly around her heart keeping her hope contained, and at the words they’re finally allowed to spring free, to unfurl and spread through her, curl and bloom into every little corner of her being. She feels the surge of warmth and light and life all the way in her toes, and she can’t move, can’t even breathe, stunned into shock with the delirious incredibility that Jen is in love with her too. 

But then it hits her. Jen had thought she was asleep. Jen didn’t _want_ her to hear it.

She should respect that. Right?

Judy can wait a little longer. She can wait until Jen is ready. She’d been waiting before. It wouldn’t be all that different.

Except that it would be. Everything’s different now. 

_Jen is in love with her too._

And all Judy can do is lie there and let the tingling continue to flood her body, let the vines unravel and spread light through her veins. She thinks that she really and truly might explode, and she wonders how Jen can’t hear the beating of her heart because it’s all Judy can hear now. The pulsing surrounds her—the ecstatic vines twisting and turning in time. Judy tries to use the thumping as something to grasp onto, tries to focus on the steady pumping and will it to slow, and she feels way too hot but she can’t move the blankets because it seems like Jen has now fallen asleep, and she can’t risk disturbing her, can’t risk letting her know that she’d actually still been awake, that she’d actually been up to hear her say it.

So she tries to get a handle on her breathing, attempts to match it against Jen’s own as she endeavours to relax herself into the mattress—Jen’s mattress, under Jen’s duvet, in Jen’s bed, in Jen’s bedroom, in Jen’s house, with Jen’s boys, in Jen’s life, and she remembers that it isn’t all Jen’s but half Judy’s, and Jen wants her there because she’s in love with her too.

Judy lets some time pass—maybe minutes, maybe hours—but she waits until she really just can’t take it anymore, and slowly, she turns on her side to face Jen again, gently pulling back the blankets a little to give her some room. And she moves back just enough so that Jen’s face isn’t blurry, until her exquisite features come into focus, and Judy drinks her in. 

She watches as Jen’s eyelashes flutter slightly as she dreams, takes in the curve of her adorable nose, the gentle slope of her soft, pink lips, the white-gold of her hair that reminds Judy of moonlight and possibility. She admires the light lines on her forehead, the scar etched into her brow, the lovely little whispers of gray at her temple. She’s the most beautiful thing Judy's ever seen. She loves her with every little fibre of her being. 

Judy doesn’t get very much sleep. She spends far too much of the night pretending, and by the time her brain is ready to give in to her body, the morning light is already creeping through the window, and Jen, _who’s in love with her too_ , is already stirring in her sleep. 

.

It’s a Saturday, so they fall into their usual Saturday routine, or Judy tries to at least. She tries not to notice the way Jen seems to stare at her hands when she plates up pancakes for the boys. She tries not to feel the way Jen’s hands linger over her own when she hands her her coffee, tries not to burst with joy at the small (but unmistakable) smile she sees flash across Jen’s face when she realizes that Judy’s attempted another foam heart. 

Judy tries not to revel in the fact that Jen gives her these puppy dog eyes when Lorna’s number registers on the caller ID, tries not to think about the obvious love in Jen’s expression when Judy rolls her eyes and picks up the phone herself. 

And when they drop Henry off at Holy Harmonies practice, and go for their usual walk around the shops by the church, Judy tries not to latch on too hard when Jen’s hand easily finds hers, just like it always does. And she tries to accept her hand as leisurely as she can muster, like she hadn’t been waiting for Jen’s palm to open up for her. And when they return to pick Henry up, and sit together in one of the back pews as the kids finish out their song, she pretends like she doesn’t realize that Jen is watching her watch Henry, pretends like she can’t feel Jen’s eyes boring into the side of her head, that she can’t feel the heat of her hand on her thigh, and maybe it’s partly because they’re sitting in a church, but Judy’s never felt closer to heaven. 

.

Judy decides to write about it.

There’s so much simmering inside her that she worries if she doesn’t get it out somehow, it’ll spill over when she least expects it. And she can’t do that to Jen. Not before she’s ready.

So she writes her a letter.

She tells Jen she’s going to go paint in the guesthouse for the afternoon, and feels bad when Jen’s face falls a little because on Saturday afternoons they normally sit out by the pool together, half-reading books but mostly just talking. Sometimes Henry will swim. And Judy feels terrible for letting Jen down, even for something as small as this, but she knows that if she doesn’t skim the surface she’ll be carrying too much with her, and this, along with her tendency to get a little bit ‘confessy’, is a very dangerous combination, especially considering the boys are spending the night with Lorna, and she and Jen are going to be alone for the evening.

She’ll try to make it up to Jen later. Maybe she’ll bake her a pie.

.

In the guesthouse, Judy takes down her box of trouble, now hidden on a high shelf under a folded stack of her floral robes (the ones not currently on rotation).

The new hiding spot had been Jen’s idea. Judy remembers the conversation.

_“Uh, Jen?”_

_“What? What’s that look for? Did you get paint on the couch again?”_

_“That’s only happened twice!”_

_“It’s a white couch, Jude.”_

_“I know, I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s okay.”_

_“But it’s not that this time!”_

_“Then?”_

_“Well, I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but, another joint’s missing from my box. I mean, Charlie could be doing a lot worse things but you’re his mom so I felt like I needed to say—”_

_“Jesus, Jude, are you still keeping that thing under the bed? Even after the letter?”_

_“I kinda just figured he already found the worst thing. And I thought he liked me enough now not to steal my weed.”_

_“He steals your weed because he likes you, because he knows you won’t yell at him for doing it.”_

_“It’s not that bad!”_

_“Jude, I know it’s not that bad, but he’s a teenager. He’s gotta work for his weed, not steal it from you! Put your box under a pile of those fucking silky pajamas of yours, he’s not gonna touch your delicates with a ten-foot pole.”_

_“That’s—kinda genius.”_

_“I’m kinda genius. Don’t sound so surprised.”_

Judy sits down on the bed, smiling at the memory, and carefully opens the box. Taking a quick inventory, she’s relieved to find the contents exactly as she left them, and briefly wonders where Charlie’s getting his weed now. Maybe she should ask him.

She rifles through the pencil sketches she keeps there, stopping to look at the one she did of Abe. She wonders what he’d think now, of everything that’s happened, of how far they’ve come. Judy would have told him everything. He knew the worst of it and loved Judy anyway—just like Jen. 

Judy’s happy Jen got to meet him, she’s happy he got to meet Jen.

She moves the drawing of Abe to the bottom of the pile, and although this hadn’t been what she’d set out to do, she finds herself stopping and holding each sketch to the light, reminiscing about when she drew them, why she’d felt compelled to. 

There’s one of Henry in his backpack on his first day of fifth grade. He’d worn a shirt Judy’d picked out for him when they’d gone back to school shopping together. She felt so proud of him whenever she looked at it, like he really was her son. She’d thought about giving it to Jen, but had selfishly kept it for herself, her own little private memory of the boy she was lucky enough to watch grow up.

Another sketch is of Dadbird, which despite her original intentions, Judy decided against giving to Henry. After the incident with Shandy, it seemed better not to reopen closed wounds. 

There’s one of Charlie with his headset on, drawn inconspicuously as she sat across the living room from him, watching his intense furrow as he played on his computer. He’d been the stillest model she’d ever had, and he didn’t even know he’d been posing.

The rest of the drawings—there’s dozens—they’re all of Jen. Every single one.

Jen’s eyes over her book as they sat by the pool. Jen asleep on the couch. Jen working at the breakfast nook, glasses on, frowning at her laptop. Jen with the widest smile Judy’s ever seen on her, from when Judy came home one Tuesday with two bottles of Jen’s favourite wine and a bag of cherries for pie. The expression on Jen’s face when Judy plopped her purchases onto the counter was seared into Judy’s mind forever—just this dumbfounded, goofy grin. 

She’d done the sketch from memory. Even now, she didn’t need the picture to remember it.

Jen’s unrestrained reaction had stunned Judy then; she hadn’t thought much of the purchases when she’d made them, but seeing the way Jen just let herself light up at something as simple as wine and the prospect of her favourite dessert had set something alight in Judy, and Judy had made it her goal to make that huge, stupid smile appear again. 

(Since then, she’s been successful more times than she can count, but still, it’s never enough.)

Putting aside the drawings, Judy picks up the item she’d opened the box for in the first place—the letter. She turns the open envelope over in her hands so that the side with her name is facing up, and with her finger, gently traces along the loops of Jen’s scrawl, starting with the curve of her _J_. 

_J U D Y_

There’s so much here, even in just her name, in the dramatic swoop of Jen’s _“J”,_ the same one she uses to sign her own name _._

Every time Judy looks at the letter she feels it again, the heartache of imagining Jen sitting down to write it. And Judy remembers how close she’d gotten to losing her that night, how scared Jen must’ve felt when she left. 

She takes the letter out of the envelope and unfolds it, letting her eyes skim across the page, remembering how a few weeks after the accident, they’d sat right here in the guesthouse with Charlie, the letter thrust in their faces, and she remembers how Jen gently but firmly put all the blame on Steve, said that she’d forgiven Judy for knowing, gone on to explain that she knew more about Steve’s disappearance than she’d let on, that he’d told her there were dangerous people after him and she betrayed Judy by not telling her or the authorities sooner, that she knew withholding the information from law enforcement was a criminal offence but she’d just been too scared to talk about it.

And Judy had been astonished by Jen’s sudden ability to think on her feet, even more dumbfounded at Jen’s ready insistence that Judy herself had no part in Ted’s death. And Judy wondered who this insistence was really for. Was it for Charlie? For Judy? For Jen? 

Afterwards, when Charlie had left the guesthouse, Jen had sobbed into Judy’s shoulder, consumed by the guilt of lying through her teeth to her son, but Judy had reminded her that everything she’d done, every single lie she’d told him had been for his own good, for his own protection, his happiness.

And Judy had held her and told her that she was a good mother, that she was the best mom she’d even known, that she’d never known anyone that would go to the lengths that Jen did for her children. 

In the week that followed, Judy could feel Charlie’s eyes on her, his gaze not so much malicious but curious. It seemed like he’d accepted Jen’s version of the truth, and his interactions with Judy were apprehensive but not hostile. After a few weeks, it seemed like he’d forgiven her.

His forgiveness had weighed on Judy, and she’d told Jen as much, crying to her about the guilt she felt that he’d pardoned her without knowing the truth, but Jen had insisted, this time to Judy alone, that Judy was not at fault for any of it with Ted. Jen told her that it was _all_ Steve’s fault, that Judy should never believe anything otherwise. She told her that the boys were better for having Judy in their lives, that they all were, that the love she gave them outweighed anything else.

And they’d vowed from then on that they wouldn’t lie to the boys anymore, that they were through it all now, they wouldn’t ever need to again.

And even though the letter’s resurgence had brought out more grief, Judy had needed to keep it. She wanted to. Despite all of the heartache, despite all the reasons it had been written, the letter was tangible proof of Jen’s trust in her, of her love. 

She wonders what kind of love Jen had felt when she’d written it.

Judy supposes it doesn’t matter whether Jen had known then or not, she knew now, and for Judy, that was so much more than enough.

How did she get this lucky? How had this become her life?

She sits down at the guesthouse desk and smooths out the letter in front of her, her eyes welling slightly as she glances over those last few lines. She takes out a fresh piece of paper from the drawer, and begins to write her response. 

When she finishes, she folds it into thirds and slips it into a new envelope. 

She turns the envelope around, and in careful handwriting, scrawls Jen’s name onto it, black ink on cream. She waves it in the air a few times, ensuring that the ink is dry, and she hadn’t initially planned on giving it to Jen at all, but Judy’s happy with it, and thinks that maybe Jen would one day like to have a tangible piece of her love in return, in Judy’s own writing.

Before she seals it, Judy decides to put the sketch of Jen in with the letter, the one of her and her wide, goofy grin. She has to fold it for it to fit, but she thinks that Jen won’t mind the crease. 

She runs her tongue across the glue and presses the edges shut, sealing her declarations in with love. 

She returns Jen's letter to her to its envelope, tucking in the flap, and puts the two closed letters down beside each other on the desk. She's struck by the image of the two together, by the complimentary contrast of their names in each other's hand. 

Judy loves the way that Jen writes _'Judy'_. She hopes Jen likes the way that Judy writes _'Jen'_.

Looking at the letters, she notices that the one addressed ' _Judy'_ already shows signs of age, even just from the envelope. It shows signs of time and trials, of desperation, of love.

The bottom of the _Y_ has bled a bit (likely the result of a stray tear), the stock is dimpled from Charlie's rough handling, the ink dulled a little from the simple passing of time—and Judy's never minded loving worn things; she's always liked the stories they'd implied—but she's struck by how much she adores the evidence of wear on this letter, of how stark the one she's just newly addressed with its fresh ink and crisp paper looks beside it, even though there's only a few months between them.

Judy thinks about how the new letter will look beside the other years from now, when time has allowed the field to level.

She looks forward to the day when it starts to yellow, when it's been opened and reopened a hundred times before. Maybe one day she and Jen will share a box of trouble, and put it up somewhere high in their closet. It's a fanciful dream and she knows it, knows that Jen's not nearly that sentimental, but the image of the two letters aging together fills her with such incredible wonder that it's fucking impossible not to lean in. 

She puts the two letters into her box, Judy's on top of Jen's, and she feels a lightness in her that she's never quite felt before.

Judy’s not sure when she’ll give the letter to Jen, but she knows that _one day_ feels a whole lot better than _maybe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @everydaybicon on twitter


	4. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could make it easier for Jen. Judy’s only ever wanted to make things easier for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took me way longer than I thought it would, but life got super busy, and then it was just too much /emotion/ to sort through in my free time so... it's like a month late but it's here!
> 
> I hope you enjoy our conclusion.

Under the cover of their shared blanket, in front of the TV in their living room, Jen’s fingers wander over Judy’s, and it's the most tantalizingly wonderful feeling.

Hesitancy, hope, want, love. Jen’s little touches mean everything now, every secret little dream Judy’s ever had the gall to wish for, and it’s all finally hers.

Jen’s hands seem warmer tonight, but Judy’s not sure if they’ve always been this warm or if their newfound radiation can be owed to the fact that she’s finally letting herself lift her wrist those last few millimetres, letting her knuckles brush against the soft flesh of Jen’s hovering palm every once in a while. 

It’s torture, to hover at this precipice with Jen, _knowing._ It’s exquisite fucking torture.

Judy wants more than anything to show Jen that’s it’s okay to want, that she’s so much more than welcome to. 

She wants to turn her own palm upward, to brush her fingertips against Jen’s as she laces their hands together, palms pressed into one another’s for love and acknowledgement, warmth and intention.

The credits are rolling and Judy’s not sure how the movie ended because all she’s been thinking about is how much she wants Jen to know that she’s wanted too. 

She brushes her knuckles again against Jen’s palm and she feels Jen shudder beside her, can see out of the corner of her eye that Jen’s been shaken out of her absentminded wandering lull, and she’s starting to slowly pull her hand away, like she’s only just realized she’s been trying to hold Judy’s and now she’s trying to play it off like she hasn’t, and it’s just so fucking sweet how nervous she is.

And Judy can’t remember anyone taking the idea of touching her so seriously, doesn’t think anyone’s ever quite taken the time to think about _her_ with such desirous complex confliction, like the idea of _Judy_ might actually be important—that she’s something to want and to lose. 

And she wants to cry because it’s _Jen_ who takes her hand with ease in the daylight under the guise of separation amongst a crowd, but at night at home when she has time and quiet enough to think, Jen only really hovers over, held close above Judy’s skin by taught invisible strings, bound to follow overhead like some sort of backwards marionette.

And Judy can feel the vibrating strings between them now, can feel the sharp, prickling draw of the little gap of air between their hands—in the millimetres between her second knuckle and the pad of Jen’s little finger—and she’s struck by the humbling dichotomy of Jen’s daylight ease and her nighttime hesitancies because they show Judy just how much Jen’s been thinking about her.

And even though she’d reasoned with herself before that it was best to keep waiting—that it was best for both her and for Jen—the cogs are turning and her heart is swelling and she’s renegotiating the terms of her own private covenant because she’s suddenly realized through her rushed recalibration that if she _does it_ , she could maybe provide Jen some relief. 

She could make it easier for Jen. Judy’s only ever wanted to make things easier for her.

So before the little voice can make its rebuttal, Judy flips over her hand.

She laces her fingers through Jen’s firm and square, resting both hands on her knee, and she hears Jen’s breath hitch, can feel her shoulders tense, can see out of the corner of the eye that Jen’s whipped around to look at her before quickly turning back to the TV, and both she and Jen know that there’s nothing to see there but a black screen and scrolling names, Judy knows Jen’s not the kind of person who watches the credits.

But Judy’s never acknowledged Jen’s wandering fingers so outrightly—she’s always let Jen take the lead—and right now Jen looks caught and embarrassed, her gaze unmoving from the uninteresting screen.

And there’s something in the way Jen swallows, in the way she glances again back at Judy with the smallest flicker of bewildered hope and the the tiniest upturn of her lips, and Judy knows that this is right, thinks that maybe Jen’s been waiting on a tangible affirmation like this for a while now.

The boys are away for the night, it’s just her and Jen here together. Maybe now’s just as good a time as any.

“Jen?” 

“Hmm?” Jen answers, still facing forward, but Judy can feel her relaxing a little into her touch, and she takes it as a sign to keep going.

“I have something to tell you,” she says slowly, tasting every life-changing vowel, letting her preface hang thick in the air. 

She can feel her heartbeat begin to thunder and quicken, can feel herself floating away, so she grips Jen’s hand a little tighter (because Jen’s her anchor to the Earth), and Jen seems to understand that Judy needs her because she’s abandoning her own nerves and turning to look at her, her expression concerned and confused.

There’s so much to say but it all still scares Judy even though she knows Jen meant what she’d whispered last night. She’s seen the evidence in everything today, can see it right now in those beautiful sea-glass eyes flitting across her face, searching.

And it’d be easy enough to just tell Jen that she’d heard what she’d said, just to open her mouth and say that she _knows,_ but she still wants to let Jen have an out if she needs it, in case she still needs more time.

Judy doesn’t want to confront, she only wants to confess. She wants to tell Jen how she feels in case _knowing_ is the push that Jen needs. Judy knows now just how much _knowing_ means. 

She’s searching her heart for the words, but every start gets caught in her throat—flipped around and shoved back down—not enough, too strong, too weak, too much.

But she knows she’s been quiet for too long now, knows that she needs to say _something_ because Jen’s really looking at her now, her adorable furrow etching ever deeper, so Judy swallows hard and resolves to just open her mouth and force something out that might begin to tackle the truth.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and _tries_.

“I love you,” Judy says, because that’s probably a good place to start.

“I love you too,” Jen responds immediately, her tone cautious and questioning.

Judy pauses, taking in the idea that this is the last moment of _before._

“No,” Judy says, “I mean, like, more than we’ve agreed to.”

Jen’s face changes, but Judy can’t place these particular lines of tension, and for a moment Judy thinks she’s fucked it all up again, that she should have kept her stupid mouth shut and now she’s ruined it and Jen’s changed her mind, but then she notices the softness in Jen’s eyes and their shine, that the corners of her lovely pink lips are trembling a little and all Judy wants is to fucking kiss it better and she’s so tired of holding back when she can’t think of a single reason good enough to so she just leans in and _does_.

She leans in and their noses brush and in the moment before Judy closes her eyes she can see the surprise on Jen’s face, can feel Jen breathe out a soft little _‘oh’_ against her mouth just as Judy captures her lips in a soft, breathy kiss, and it takes a second for Jen to respond but when she does it’s like Judy’s finally free.

Jen’s lips are so, so soft. They feel so good against hers. It’s everything Judy’s been waiting for, and somehow so much sweeter than she’s imagined.

She kisses Jen softly, trying to savour every movement, to feel and know and memorize the arch and curvature of her lips. 

She grazes the corner of Jen’s mouth, brushes gently against her bottom lip, kisses her evenly to understand the way Jen’s cupid bow plays against her own. It feels like music and laughter and everything good, sunshine and sea breeze and fresh morning dew.

She tries to put words behind her kisses, to tell Jen everything she feels and knows with each returning press of her lips.

_I love you._

_I know._

_I’m yours._

_I love you._

Jen’s following her lead, drawing closer with every kiss, pressing her lips against Judy’s with earnest intention, and Judy can feel the warmth blooming inside her, the giddy reminder that Jen wants this too. _Jen wants her too._

The feeling surges and the light pours out, and to keep herself grounded she presses into Jen ever nearer, bringing her hands up to thread her fingers through Jen’s hair and hold her to her closer still.

She brushes her thumb against Jen’s cheek as she deepens their kiss, increasing her pressure and insistence, and Jen’s hand finds its way to the back of Judy’s neck, winding into the soft waves at her nape, the other snaking gently to Judy’s hip, pulling her in for more.

Jen’s parting her lips and tilting her head and moving her hand to cup Judy’s chin, to angle her face better under hers as she parts Judy’s mouth with her own.

And when her tongue meets Jen’s, Judy feels like she’s fucking seeing stars, and it’s the best high of her life, sharing these slow languid kisses with Jen in their living room.

She tastes like wine and like _Jen._

* * *

Jen’s mind’s having a hard time catching up with her body but she doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to have to _think_ because thinking would probably involve stopping, and right now with Judy’s hands in her hair and her tongue in her mouth she’s not sure where she starts and Judy begins and uncertainty’s actually really just fine because _Judy’s kissing her,_ and Jen’s been _thinking_ for so long that all she wants to do now is keep falling. Falling into Judy feels so much like bliss.

But then her head gets there. Her mind catches up and has fucking _questions_ and her brain forces her lips off of Judy’s, and every other cell in her body is fighting as her mind pulls her back, chest heaving, heart hammering, forcing her to take in for the first time with cognizance that Judy’s almost found her way into her lap.

Judy’s chestnut waves are tousled in every direction, her full cheeks flushed rosy pink. Her lips are swollen and her eyes are wide—dark honey holding shock and terror deep—and all Jen wants to do is keep going, to kiss the stun away and replace it with certainty, but she needs to make sure this is what Judy actually wants, and not some product of guilt or convoluted pity, needs to make sure that Judy’s kisses are as earnest as they feel.

“What are we doing?” Jen asks. 

Judy’s breath hitches and the draw’s enough to pull Jen in again, but she fights and resists and stops short, resting her forehead lightly against Judy’s, millimetres between their noses. 

“Kissing?” Judy whispers, peering up through her eyelashes shy and sweet, and if Jen’s heart wasn’t hammering so insistently, or if Judy’s lips were even just an inch farther away, Jen might even laugh at Judy’s breathless candor. But her frankness only tugs at Jen’s heart because there’s still a pressing question to be answered, and it’s so hard to ask but she needs the confirmation, needs to know for sure.

“And you—” Jen fumbles as Judy’s hands move to her shoulders. Judy's pulling back to look at her, her thumbs brushing lightly across the exposed part of Jen’s collarbone. Jen can tell that Judy’s steadying herself, can see in the look in her eyes that it’s taking everything Judy has not to keep going right now—a realization that spreads phenomenal relief through Jen like nothing ever has before—but Jen has to ask it anyway, needs to hear Judy say it for real. “You want this?”

Tentatively, Judy reaches up to brush a stray strand out of Jen’s face, carefully tucking it behind her ear, taking another deep breath before continuing.

“So, so much,” Judy says, “I’m in love with you, Jen.” 

And at her words Jen feels every taught muscle in her body give.

“Jude,” she manages, but it’s all she gets out because Judy’s lips are on hers again, and she’s really not sure who leaned in this time but it doesn’t matter because it’s everything she’s been waiting for, wondering and dreaming and imagining and wishing, but she never thought even in her most vivid daydreams that it’d feel anything close to this—that the sensation of Judy’s mouth moving against hers would feel like wonder and love and ecstasy and beginnings. 

Kissing Judy spreads warmth through Jen that feels like sun on bare skin. 

She’s warm and sweet like cherries and wine and something distinctly _Judy._

And somewhere in this dreamy giddy haze it hits Jen that all this time Judy hasn’t just been _letting_ her hold her hand, she’s actually been wanting her to.

Jen pulls back for a moment and takes Judy’s hand, her other hand cupping her chin, those big, kind brown eyes swimming with love and desire and dizzy relief.

And it feels pretty redundant by this point to tell her, but Judy deserves to hear it. It had felt so good to hear Judy say it, so Jen does.

“Jude, I’m in love with you too.”

Judy smiles.

“Jen,” she says, “I know.”

. 

Later when Jen offers Judy her hand and whispers the question in her ear, it doesn’t feel at all like rushing or greed, because from the way Judy’s been touching her arm and her cheek, she knows Judy wants her whole, can feel that Judy’s been waiting and wanting for a while now, just like she has.

So when she leads her upstairs and into their bedroom, it doesn’t feel so strange to reach for the hem of Judy’s shirt and pull it up over her head, to push her back toward their bed until she falls back against it, to crawl over her and pull her own shirt up and over her arms.

And when Jen reaches behind her back, she’s not so surprised when Judy reaches up around her to meet her fingers at the clasp, and she delights in the feeling of Judy’s careful small fingers by her spine, helping her undo the hooks.

Judy doesn’t hurry to pull it off of her. She sits back on her palms and watches as Jen lets the straps fall away from her shoulders, watches quietly and reverently as Jen pulls her bra down and slides it over her arms and her wrists.

And there’s so much want in the way Judy’s looking at _all_ _of her_ that Jen feels her eyes begin to prickle, sobering only when she realizes that Judy’s leaning up and reaching behind her own back, unhooking her clasp and pulling her own bra off fast and bringing Jen down over her until she can feel Judy’s breasts against her own chest, soft and full against her unloved flesh, and Judy’s warm skin on hers feels like absolution.

.

When Judy’s fingers enter her, Jen gives in to the feeling, opens her legs a little wider for Judy to curl and coax.

Her fingers are smaller and softer than Jen’s used to, so much more delicate but deliciously sure. 

They feel so good inside her, circling exactly where Jen needs her, flooding her body with waves of delirious ecstasy.

And as she draws pleasure up and out of Jen, Judy’s awed expression spells out her admiration. 

Jen can feel her devotion in her fingertips, in the way that they curl and they press.

And Jen knows from the ease in which Judy’s moving through her than she’s wetter than she’s probably ever been, but Judy’s talking her through it, whispering encouragements and affirmations, telling her how beautiful she looks and how much she loves her.

Every breath shudders out of Jen, every pant and gasp earned as Judy fills her and touches her with worship-like passion.

And Judy strokes her hair and kisses her chest as she brings Jen there and then through, watching with wondrous veneration as Jen shakes and convulses around her fingers.

And it’s release like Jen’s never felt before, coming around Judy’s lovely hand in their bedroom. 

And as she catches her breath she presses into Judy and looks at their bodies together—legs and shoulders and hips and breasts, abdomens, arms, and knees. She revels in the sight of their bare skin together, Judy’s warm tan with her own paler freckles.

She loves all of Judy against her, loves being tangled together. And for the first time ever Jen finds herself thinking that maybe loving can actually feel easy.

When Jen touches Judy it comes to her almost instinctually; it’s new but she knows what to do. 

She knows every line on Judy’s face, knows what joy and pleasure looks like from the way she crinkles her nose. And it’s so warm inside her, so soft and wet and warm. Judy feels so good around her fingers, spilling out onto her hand.

And Jen’s dying to taste her so she does, moves down on the bed and between Judy’s thighs and as her tongue meets the soft wetness there Judy winds her hands through Jen’s hair, her adorable little moans showing Jen exactly what she likes and when and where she needs more.

It’s different and new but it’s safe because it’s Judy, and for some fucking reason Judy’s in love with her too.

. 

“No nightmares, huh?” Jen asks, tracing patterns on Judy’s bare shoulder in the yellow-white light of the morning.

“I guess not,” Judy answers, drawing closer, wrapping a leg around Jen’s waist. She leans in and places a quick kiss on Jen’s nose. “Maybe I’m cured.”

“So, all this time you just needed to get off?”

“Shut up,” Judy says, grinning. She reaches up to move Jen’s hand from her shoulder, guiding her arm until its wrapped snuggly around her own waist, closing her eyes and moving closer, shifting her head onto Jen’s pillow.

And Judy looks so peaceful now, so content and blissed and free.

Jen watches Judy’s long eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, admires the straight point of her pretty nose and the distinctive pink bow of her lips. She appreciates the lines by her eyes and her smile, the deep rich brown of her hair.

Judy opens her eyes and smiles again, a smaller one now just for Jen.

And Judy’s so pretty it’s kind of insane. Jen’s thought it since the start but now she’s free to notice—to watch and to linger, to look and appreciate, to touch and to kiss and to feel.

She traces the smooth skin by Judy’s hip, brushes her thumb against the dimples by her spine.

Jen basks in the feeling of Judy’s skin under her fingers, knowing that her touches are welcome and wanted. It feels like so much more than she deserves, but it’s really the most wonderful feeling.

.

“Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back,” Judy says with a peck and a grin.

“Why are you leaving so soon?”

“We’ve been here for hours, Jen!”

“And the boys won’t be back for at least a couple more—”

“I’ll be right back,” Judy insists. “Promise.”

She kisses Jen’s cheek and rolls out of bed, finds one of her robes in the drawer.

Jen watches as Judy gathers the fabric around her body, tying the blue silk closed at her waist. 

“Could you toss me a tshirt or something?” Jen asks, wanting to even the field a little.

“Sure. Light grey? Dark grey?”

“Fuck you.”

“Light grey it is!”

Judy throws her one and winks exaggeratedly before heading out of the room.

As Jen pulls on the tshirt she can hear Judy downstairs, hears her pattering around the kitchen and then opening the door to the backyard.

And Jen wonders what Judy’s version of ‘right back’ means if she’s going all the way outside. She debates getting dressed and following her, but then she hears the door downstairs closing again, and Judy’s footsteps back on the stairs.

True to her word, it’s only really been a moment before Judy reappears in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand, her box of weed and other trouble in the other.

“Here,” Judy says, handing Jen the water and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Drink. You need it.”

Judy’s right, and Jen downs half the glass easily before offering the rest to Judy. When she’s done, Judy sets the empty glass on the bedside table, and scoots closer to Jen with the box.

She opens it, the contents still mostly hidden from Jen, angled away behind the raised lid. Judy sifts through and produces an envelope, holding it out for her to take.

“What are you— Jude, you don’t have to give that back to me—“ but then Jen realizes that it’s not _that_ letter at all. This envelope says ‘ _Jen’._

“You don’t have to read it or open it or anything now, I just wanted to give it to you because, well, none of it’s a secret anymore.”

“Judy, what is this?”

“It’s um,” she grins, a little sheepish, “it’s how I feel about you.”

“Oh,” Jen softens, “Jude that’s— How long have you had this? When did you—” 

Jen’s not quite sure what questions to ask, they haven’t yet talked it all through, but the idea of Judy loving her enough to think and know and write it all down has Jen feeling a little overwhelmed.

“It’s a bit, uh—you don’t have to read it right now, or like, ever. I just wanted you to have it.”

“Judy. Do you want me to read it?”

“Yes,” Judy nods. “Yeah, I really do.”

Jen just shakes her head and smiles, turns the envelope around a few times in her hands. She admires the way Judy’s addressed it. _J-E-N_ in her smooth, familiar script.

“Have I ever told you that you have really nice writing?”

Judy positively beams.

Jen flips the envelope over and carefully tugs it open, not wanting to rip or damage Judy’s offering any more than necessary, not with her watching so expectantly.

There’s two folded pieces of paper inside, and Jen looks to Judy, questioning.

“The top one first.”

“Okay.” She pulls it out and unfolds it, feeling Judy’s eyes on her as she does. “Out loud, or?”

“In your head’s good,” Judy smiles.

“Sure thing Jude.”

And so, with Judy watching, Jen begins to read.

…

_Jen,_

_I’ve loved you from the very beginning, even though I really wasn’t supposed to. I only wanted to help at the start. But then I actually got to know you._

_And you were strong and brave and fierce and good. You loved so hard and so deeply. I could see it then and I can see it now. It’s there in everything you do._

_I can see it in the way you fight for those boys. I can see it in the way you protect me._

_And I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. I don’t know if I deserve this life with you. It’s better than anything I could’ve hoped for—this home with the boys and with you._

_I love you so, so much Jen. More than I ever thought was possible. I love my life here with this family. I love you and our boys so much._

_Thank you for letting me love Charlie and Henry. Thank you for saying they’re ours. You’ve done such a good job being their mom. You’re a good mom, Jen, I promise. And I know that you don’t believe it, but I know that all of their best comes from you._

_You’re so kind to me, Jen. And so good to me always. So generous even at the start. You let me into your home and your family. You made me a part of your life. And I didn’t even have to ask you to. I’ve never had to ask you to._

_You didn’t have to share it all with me but you did. And I’m so, so grateful you did. I feel so lucky to get to love you, to wake up with you in your bed._

_You loving me wasn’t something I bargained for. It wasn’t something I ever expected. I’d wondered and hoped but was okay regardless because you wanting me around was enough._

_And now that I know you love me too, it all feels like too much. I really don’t know if I deserve it. But I won’t pretend it isn’t everything I’ve wanted, everything I’ve dreamed of and more._

_I’ll be yours for as long as you want me with you. (Forever’s just fine with me.)_

_Thank you so much for letting me love you. And thank you for loving me too._

_Judy_

_…_

By the time Jen gets to the end, the words are blurring together, the emotion setting a catch in her throat. 

She lowers the letter and looks up at Judy, anxious eyes over the page. 

But it seems like Judy can tell that Jen’s overwhelmed, too overcome still to speak, so she wordlessly slides her the second piece of paper, watching patiently as Jen unfolds it.

It’s a drawing of Jen—one of Judy’s. In it, Jen wears an impossibly wide dumb grin. She looks free and young and too pretty, thinks that Judy’s maybe taken some kinder liberties with her sketch. 

But looking from the drawing to Judy, at the love so clear in her eyes, Jen starts to think that maybe the drawing’s just exactly how Judy sees her.

.

They keep the two letters together in their closet for weeks and then months and then years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really love to hear thoughts on this because it was kind of an experiment in prose poetics gone awry (pretentious I know), but I gotta do something with my degree, right?
> 
> Anyway, from here on out I'm probably gonna write much more fun things! Lighthearted fun things that won't take me a month to agonize over!!
> 
> (Also I titled this fic way before Bly Manor came out, so that's a fun coincidence!)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate comments so much.


End file.
